


The Greed of Me

by LizzyMay



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Harry is in trouble again, M/M, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Multi, Mystery, Older Harry, Time Travel, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2020-07-17 22:29:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyMay/pseuds/LizzyMay
Summary: Harry has everything he dreamed of as a child.A home. A beautiful wife. Three gorgeous children. A friendship circle so close they were almost one. A job that keeps them comfortable.Yet there is one thing he does not have...TLDR: Harry goes missing, and gets exactly what he deserves.





	1. Chapter 1

Do you feel it?  
The power that courses through your veins? 

The very essences of who you are. How you weave your selfish need to protect others with a magic that is far stronger than you. Each pump of your heart, each surge of blood, each pulse of magic. The way your breath lingers on frosted windows, leaving specks of you coated onto glass. How your touch ignites the wild beating of hearts to those who have had the pleasure of your company. You have grown beautifully, far better than I could have predicted.

Ripe for the slaughter.

You know how it feels to stand on the precipice, to let life leave you and tumble into nothing. How wonderful it feels to let go and be free. To unleash agony and despair onto those willing to lap it from your soul. To give and give and give until there is nothing left but skin and bone. You pool your gifts to the many, letting them take pieces of you until you have nothing left to give. 

You should have died when I told you to. For you are turning foul. 

What happened to those who became gluttons for your presence? 

Who are you trying to impress?

Your grand gestures of heroism and self-recklessness. Were you that desperate to fulfil the role I helped forge for you? You could, should, have ignored it. You could have been normal. If you chose not to be the hero. 

I don’t think you could resist it. Being the centre. 

Because you are greedy. 

How is life without me? Are you lost? Are you at peace with yourself?

Do you find yourself pacing the floors of your quaint little home? Wishing for danger to return? So you can be the person you lost the day you lost me. 

Do you really enjoy a peaceful life? Of three and a half children? Of kissing your wife goodbye, of packing your briefcase to go to work? I doubt you like working at an office desk. I doubt you enjoy working for those all too happy to shout that they have you under their thumb. Pressuring you to be the golden boy you have been since I made you him. The pressure… every single day. It must be maddening.

You turned your pain and made it power. You drew fire from your friends and drove out the hoards of darkness with ‘love’. You preached to know what ‘love’ was. 

Do you know it now?

Do you see that I was right?

What is this ‘love’ anyway? People never loved you for who you were, but only for what you functioned as for them. 

To be what they want you to be.

To be the father you promised your children you would be.

To be the husband you swore to your wife you would be.

And for what reason? You have, after all, fulfilled your purpose. 

I know you, Harry. 

You must be incredibly bored without me.


	2. Chapter 2

He lazily flicked a ball of paper across his desk, watching as it rolled off the other side. 

This is what he has been reduced to. 

The Great Harry Potter. Saviour of the Wizarding world. Master of Death. The Boy who lived.

Now the Man who Filled in Incident Forms. 

This wasn’t exactly what he had expected as he moved up the ladder in his Auror career. He had imagined higher-profile cases. Daring feats of magic and close encounters… not writing about the use of cursed toothpicks at muggle restaurants by small-time wannabe dark lords.

‘Oh this is exactly what fits your skillset’

‘It pays a few thousand galleons more than fieldwork!”

‘You need to start trying to stay alive, Harry. Lily is frightened to death that one day she’ll no longer have her Daddy.’

If he was honest with himself, had it not been for his daughter's unrelenting tears, he would never have accepted this stupid job. If only he hadn’t known what it is to not have a father. Maybe that had something to do with his guilt. 

The job was dull as hell. 

Come in at nine, write reports on illegal magic items and the wizard behind it, have lunch that he made in a made panic at six this morning, go home at five… ish. 

The people in his office were more than excited when he rocked up a few years ago. He didn’t have enough appendages to count the number of times he was asked to pose for pictures for their relatives. Invited to dinner parties, Christmas parties, weddings… just so they could say Harry Potter had attended. No one asked him about his life. His wife, his children. They didn’t need to, because they read it all in the Daily Prophet. 

Harry stared at the report in front of him, slightly bemused at what a ‘Hooping Fintye’ was and zero interest in how it managed to live within a belly button for forty years. He raised his quill, only to put it back down on his desk as the door to his small office opened with a bang. 

“So, Potter. I heard you know about time turners.” Said Jefferies, back from the Maldives and looking rather smug about it. All tanned and relaxed and happy. With very little regard for Harry’s swinging door. 

Harry looked up, raising an eyebrow. Of course, Jefferies ‘heard’ about it. He was the one who wrote the report about it twenty years ago. He had personally interviewed Harry about it. Harry decided to play along, for a lack of anything else to do. 

“Uh, yeah. I’ve used them before… why?”

“Well.” Jefferies pulled out a small bag, placing onto Harry’s desk. He tapped the top of it with a single finger. “How about a time turner portkey? We’ve taken one off this girl in Kent and-“

Harry resisted the urge to scream. Now that sounded like something he could get his teeth into. A stereotypical ‘Harry Potter’ adventure, if someone was to waste their time writing one. Served to him on a silver platter. Something a million miles away from Hooping Fintye’s and Snuggling Buffins. He would have accepted in a heartbeat, he would have a few years ago. He would have put his hand on the portkey and whizzed away for an adventure he would talk about excitedly at the dinner table. 

But. 

He wasn’t Harry the Chosen One anymore. He was Harry the adult with responsibilities. Harry with a deadline in two hours. Harry with a family to look after. Harry who couldn’t afford an injury. Instead, he held a hand up, shaking his head. 

“I’m not interested, Jefferies. It’s Gin’s scan this week. I can’t afford to disappear for a few months.”

“Why on earth is she going for a scan? St Mungo’s-“

“I know. I know. Believe me, I know.” Harry sighed. “Her Dad insisted on it. I dunno.” 

An awkward pause passed between them. Jefferies picked the bag up, tucking it safely away in his pocket. 

“Well. It’s not urgent. If you change your mind…”

“I won’t. Thanks.” Harry looked back down to his paper, picking up his quill and silently getting on with his report. 

He ignored the disappointed look he was given. He let more and more people down these days. 

It’s not like he didn’t hear what they said about him. How really, he was quite boring. Dull. Hardly anything as special as he was described in the paper. It was like people were disappointed that he was a person. Not some kind of pompous twat that enters the room wand first. How he was too ‘quiet’. How it was hard to get him to talk about ‘You-know-who’. It was hard to get him to talk about any of the famous stories that were, for the most part, made up. 

He never recalled fighting a Hinkypunk. He wasn’t sure where that one came from. What business did he have bopping a Hinkypunk on the nose with his wand? The poor things just wanted to lure people to a bog. Just shine a Lumos at them and you’re all good. 

Yet Betty from accounts seemed to believe that he defeated a squadron of them during his seventh year at Hogwarts. Ah yes. His greatest adversary yet. A bit of cloudy air and a rusty lantern. Whatever would he do?

Work packed up at five. 

With a quick wave of his hand, he cleared his desk and summoned his bag. He didn’t need to use his magic for that, but he had to get his thrills where he could. He barely needed his wand much nowadays. 

Perhaps that was the worst part about stepping back from active duty. 

He had no constant outlet for the magic that built up within him. Sometimes he felt like he could explode. The magic fizzled at his fingertips, tingled his toes. It refused to leave him until he released his power. He felt alive when he finally gave in to his desires, the rush of adrenaline that flooded his veins and sent his heart soaring. It would send his head into a tizzy, his cheeks would flush, his ears would ring. He loved the colours, the greens, blues, reds. The sparks that lit up his face and burned at his hands, power pouring from them like a fountain. He loved how each spell made him feel. He could feel the violent push of a Flipendo, the pull of an Accio charm. He would fall back into the comfort of an Expelliamus like it was an extension of himself. 

He felt like Harry Potter when he let go.

Like the Harry on the front cover of all the page of the Prophet.

Like the Harry who saved the wizarding world. 

The Harry who got the girl and had the fairytale ending he had dreamed of. 

…

Why does he feel so empty?

The Family. The Job. The perfect house in a thriving wizard suburb. Whose children got everything he never could. 

Where did he go wrong?

The tube was packed. Crowded. Hot. Yet he still insisted on taking it… just to feel like the Harry before magic became second nature to him. Perhaps that’s what he wanted. To be the Harry that found magic so mysterious and wonderful. An escape. A play fantasy where he was the hero and the world seemed far simpler. 

He had grown used to the stares the muggles threw his scar. He wondered for a brief moment, what would happen if he felt it twinge again. If it bled. If it did anything it used to do. Is it wrong of him to admit that he wished it would… just so he could feel something? He rubbed it absentmindedly, jumping off the circle line and making his way up to the station. 

Harry stepped out onto the busy streets of London, pressing his hat down to his head to stop it flying off to fuck knows where. He should have bothered to look both ways before crossing. Yet, it was that little surge of adrenaline that came from him nearly being knocked down by a black cab that made him feel alive. 

It didn’t take much these days. 

He ignored the beeping of the cab, deciding to vanish half of the contents of the petrol tank instead. The muggle would assume he was driving around too much… and he would be wrong. Was that a little bit evil? Maybe. Maybe a part of Voldemort still lay within him. Maybe. No. He was glad to be rid of him. 

He should have apparated when he was on the tube, he thought to himself. Though, he wasn’t exactly in a rush to get anywhere in particular. Albus had been upset that Scorpius had turned down his invitation to stay with the Potters for a week. James was having some girlfriend troubles and Lily had discovered the joy that was spontaneous combustion. Accidental magic certainly was a pain in his arse. He’s been through three hats this week. 

Maybe he just needed a drink. The Leaky Cauldron wasn’t too far… he could apparate to it if he was sneaky enough. Though why be sneaky when you are in London? No one would even realise you had disappeared in front of them. 

So he did.

And already sitting at the bar, his hand ready with a few galleons for something lethal. The bartender barely blinked. 

“What shall it be Mr Potter?”

“The strongest thing you have.”

The problem is, when you are Harry Potter, is that it is incredibly bad form to get drunk in public. Even though he was in his thirties, he was still the Golden Child. He could do no wrong. He was the example, the poster boy, the idiot that played along with this image he had been trying to break free from for years. 

He was handed something purple. Purple is a good colour. It tasted sharp, sour, but by Merlin, it nearly blew his face off. It was just what he needed. It seemed to settle down after a few sips like it was adjusting to his taste. Though why it needed to start off sour was beyond him. 

“Potter?” A familiar voice came from behind him. Ah. 

“Malfoy?” Harry looked over his shoulder to spot the blonde-haired man. Dressed to the nines and very much out of place. “What are you doing here?”

“I was passing through… Scorpius has outgrown his trousers again.”

“You do know you don’t need magical trousers? Just go to Marks and Spencer’s like everyone else does.”

Malfoy paused, chewing on the information. 

“… Do they have them in grey?”

“Yes, Malfoy. In fact, you can get them in any shade of grey you like. Racks and racks of grey trousers. All of them grey. All of them reasonably priced.” Harry rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his now magenta drink. 

“Who put a goblin in your glass?” Malfoy frowned but chose to come closer anyway. He put his rather stylish shopping bag down by his feet, hopping up onto the barstool beside Harry. “It’s just school trousers.”

“I can’t believe my life has come to a point where I am discussing shades of school uniform with you.” Harry took an alarmingly large gulp of the drink… strawberries, huh? 

Malfoy blinked, quietly ordered a coffee, and watched Harry put his head on the bar. 

“Be grateful it has.” Malfoy said, folding his hands into his lap. “… Are you seriously having a mid-life crisis?”

“If that’s what its called.” Harry paused, then turned his head sideways. Malfoy’s coffee arrived, and Harry took a moment to enjoy the rolls of steam that floated over the sides of the cup. “Do you ever want to go back to Hogwarts?”

“Not really. Unlike you, my memories of Hogwarts have soured.” Malfoy blew gently on the coffee. “I suppose you want to relive your glory days.”

“Maybe. I think I would have done a few things differently. I’d have been kinder to you for a start.”

“How much of that have you drunk?” Malfoy laughed, “You were a pig.”

“And so were you!” Harry straightened up, pointing over at him. “At least I kept my nose clean.”

Malfoy choked on his drink. 

“You kept your nose clean? Potter if that was you keeping your nose clean, I’d hate to see what happens when you don’t!” 

The pair stared at each other for a moment, then broke out into a smile. 

“You aren’t so bad.” Harry grinned, putting his hands around his drink. “Sorry I said I wouldn’t be your friend.”

“I cannot believe this. You really are in a crisis, aren’t you?” Malfoy shook his head in despair. “I’m going to need more than a coffee for this… You aren’t in a hurry to get anywhere?”

Harry took a long swig. Technically, yes. He was due home about an hour ago. Over an hour ago… almost two. 

Ah well. A drink or two with an old enemy can’t hurt…


	3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter returned home, far, far later than anticipated. 

Far later. 

So late, that the children had long since been tucked away in bed. He missed dinner. Quite possibly missed dessert too. Oh dear. What a terrible husband he turned out to be. Was it his night to read to Lily? Probably. Oops. At least he’s not, you know, dead. She can’t get that upset. 

Had the sun just begun to dip under the horizon, or was the sun starting to wake up? 

He didn’t know. Not at all. Nor did he care. For the early evening/night/morning wind had picked up and had taken his hat. Now his ears were cold and his belly hurt so much from laughing with Malfoy over utter rubbish. Utter utter tosh. Something about Malfoy and that blasted hippogriff. Ah, Malfoy was a riot. Maybe he should meet up with him again. It was nice. He thought. 

He was currently trying to entice his key into the lock.

It just appeared that no matter what he did, no matter how many times he circled the hole with his tip, he could not ram the bastard thing in. Harry pulled his wand from his blazer pocket, struggling to get a hold of the thing without dropping his- uh, the key has fallen into the flower bed. 

“Axio key.” He slurred, swaying with an open palm, waiting for the key to pop itself nicely into his hand. It didn’t. He said again, “Axio Ke- fahhhkit.”

His wand, his wand. Where oh where had his wand gone? He remembered feeling it when he went to the bathroom. Yes yes. In his pocket. He had tried to make himself sick as to not appear as squiffy as he now appeared to be… perhaps it hadn’t worked as planned. Was he sick? He couldn’t remember. 

He felt very, very weird. 

Warm and lovely, a bit on the rowdy side. He could cause some mischief if he was twenty years younger. A lovely, lovely bit of tom-foolery. A little. That would tide him over. He could stop a few dark lords, or take out a few ladies. Or gentlemens. Had Harry had a gentleman? 

Harry put his head on the front door. 

“Ahloamora” He shook his head, his forehead scrapping on the paint of the door. “Alowamorrah”

This was getting ridiculous. 

He took a deep breath in. 

“Giiiiiiiiinnnnn” He called out into the night. “Giiiinnn Dahling, Issh Harry”

The front door opened suddenly, much to Harry’s delight. He caught himself before he face planted the floor, grabbing a hold of the arm of his beautiful and very angry wife. 

“I know it’s you.” Ginny wrenched Harry through the door. She dragged him into the living room, tossing him down on his armchair and stood in front of him. 

She was beautiful. 

All wrapped up cosy in her dressing gown, cradling their child with a hand on top of her ever-growing bump. How long until the newest Potter arrived? Harry wanted to say a few more months. Her gorgeous shiny hair flowing over one shoulder, tickling her sides and coming to rest at her hip. Even in her rage, she was still gorgeous. More gorgeous than before, he was inclined to say. He liked that he was getting a different expression other than frustration or disappointment. 

Yes. She was certainly her mother’s daughter. This was exactly the type of rage he was very glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of when Ron rescued him from the Dursleys. It was a protective, caring kind of anger that instilled a deep sense of guilt within a person. Within Harry. Like he should be responsible for his actions. 

“Care to explain where you have been? I don’t mind if you want to go out, Harry, but you have to tell me.” 

“Not really. Why?”

“Why?” Ginny looked as though he had slapped her in the face. He wouldn’t. “Really? Why would I worry if you went missing for ten hours then come strolling in utterly arsefaced?”

“What? What. I’not been killed yet.” Harry went to stand, only for Ginny to push him back down onto the chair. He looked up at her, frowning. “Don’t push me.”

“You don’t get to just go to bed. I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been contacting everyone I can think of- who were you with?” She said, standing ever closer to him. 

Pinned between his unborn child and an armchair. Hardly a position Harry thought he’d find himself in tonight. 

“Dusen’t matter.”

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

“No, it dusen’t. Look, I’m knackered-“

“So am I.” 

“Then go to bed, Ime not stophing you” Harry slurred, licking his teeth as he shook his head. Something wasn’t right. He felt like he was going to pass out, not a good thing to do in the middle of an argument. 

Ginny didn’t seem to notice.

“How could I? I know you, you get yourself into the worst types of trouble-”

“I never notiished.”

“-And now you are keeping secrets? I won’t be angry-“

“You’llready are”

“Harry, for Merlin’s sake. I nearly had Ron out.” Ginny said exasperated, rubbing her bump. Harry stood once more, wobbling as he did so. He held onto the fireplace, breathing out steadily. His head was spinning, his stomach rolling around inside him. What on earth was in that drink?

“I dunt need to be watshed. Ime not a child”

“No. You are Harry Potter. Why won’t you tell me who you were with?” Ginny stepped behind him, moving to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Why do you need to know everyfing?” Harry straightened up once more, moving swiftly out of the way of Ginny’s hand, starting to feel rather unsteady. He clipped her hand a little harder than he intended, avoiding her gaze. “Can’t I have somethin for myself?”

“Like a person? Are you seeing someone else?” She whispered, her hand frozen in the air. Her eyes grew wide, waiting for him to say something. 

He had a funny feeling that no matter what he said it would make the situation worse. 

“What? No!”

“No? Then why are you back so late?! Who were you with?!”

“Gin, It doesn’t matter. I’m not gonna see him again if it upsets you that much.” He realised he had mis-stepped the minute he had added the pronoun. Curse his big gob. He rolled his eyes as Ginny inflated with anger. 

“Him? Who?”

“M- No, A friend. Nuthin more.” Harry tried to take another step towards her. His knee buckled beneath him, causing him to fall to the ground.

Of course, to Ginny, it looked far more like Harry was breaking down in front of her. Like she had just uncovered a secret truth her husband had been holding from her. She never thought this would have happened. Never thought that her perfect husband would go out of his way to hide an affair from her, let alone have one in the first place. Her heart broke… but she wasn’t about to show him that. She stood over him, scowling down at him.

“Am I not enough for you? Is what we built together not enough for you?”

If they are going to talk about it, then he guessed they were going to talk about it. Drunk or not. 

“This is maddenin. I can’t live like thish. I can’t do this stupid job, Gin. I can’t. I can’t take these kids and their whining, and their crying. I can’t- I can’t”

“You can’t take me, so you found someone else to take you.”

“No, you put words in my mouf”

“Are we not enough for you? I thought that is what you wanted. A family?”

“I did! I do! I just, You have no idea swath iches like faur me, I dinke have one before!” Harry’s vision swam, from tears? No… more like his head was being put in a mixing bowl and whisked to death. He can’t be having this conversation now. He can’t. He was too swimmy and no longer feeling warm but far more like his insides were clawing their way out of him. He held a hand up to Ginny, indicating he needed a second to compose himself. Not that it did anything but raise her temper.

“So you changed your mind? You don’t want us anymore?” Ginny ground her teeth, trying to not shout. Her children were asleep. They didn’t need to know their father despised them. “You don’t get to decide that.” 

Harry was going to respond. Honest to Merlin he was. It’s just, when he opened his mouth, vomit came before words. The hand he slapped over his mouth didn’t stem the flow, more sprayed it all over himself and the carpet and the fireplace. Ginny’s nose curled in disgust, stepping away from the puddle forming on her floor.

“For goodness sake, You reek of-“

“-Oh what. Now you are the smell police?” Harry snapped, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He glared up at her. “I’m going to bed.”

“Sleep in the guestroom. I don’t even want to see you right now.” Ginny whipped around, stomping to the living room door. She paused, for a moment, growling under her breath. “Or in the morning.”

“Fine by me.” Harry held his scowl at her. Long enough to see her climb the stairs. 

Excellent work there, Harry. Made things far more bearable in an already tense household. 

He ran his non-sick covered hand through his hair. To bed, then back to work in two hours. Then buy Ginny something to make up for the fight. This was going to be a horrible routine, he felt. Oh well. What can you do? The joys of married life. 

Harry hauled himself up from the floor.

And collapsed straight back onto the carpet.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry Potter arrived at work fifteen minutes late. 

Which was long enough for the office to run around the grinder of the rumour mill. Was it because Ginny had gone into early labour? Had the fourth Potter child finally decided to make an appearance, and if so, was everything alright? Did they need to start preparing a ‘congratulations’ basket? Had Harry revealed what the gender of their baby was so they could appropriately fill said basket? 

Charlie from the Wand Support Desk had just opened their mouth to protest forcing gender ideals onto a baby when the famous Harry Potter waltzed into the office. He would have looked an absolute mess had his robes not been pressed and his shoes not shined. Harry’s skin possessing a waxy sheen to it, yellowing under the clinical lighting of his office. Eyes sporting bags far larger than the ones he wore to the battle of Hogwarts. Lips more crusty than the time he was dehydrated camping in some desolated wood. 

Harry Potter did not look well. 

Of course, his office was too wrapped up in their own silly fantasies about his life that they didn’t blink an eye to the horrendous appearance of the saviour of the wizarding world. Betty, who seemed to rock up to work to socialise, spoke first. 

“Mr Potter, Sir, we were wondering if you knew the gender of your baby? We are putting together a -” 

“I don’t care.” Harry snipped, briskly walking through towards his office and avoiding eye contact with everyone. He really, really didn’t care. About the baby or the basket or how much he hated his job and his life. 

In particular, he made an exact effort in ignoring the beaming look of approval that Charlie from the Wand Support Desk wore. Yay, Harry Potter doesn’t care about gender, look how progressive he is despite the fact that accepting people as they are is an extremely low standard in modern heroism. Maybe he should state that he thinks women are people, and children should have rights and that people should be allowed clean water to drink. Or, one better, people should be allowed to think freely for themselves? 

Settle down everyone, hold your applause. It’s just another day in the life of a hero. 

No need to thank Harry for breaking down these walls that had nothing to do with him in the first place. 

Shutting the door to his adoring fans, Harry turned and placed his back on the door. He felt like he could cry. It was an odd feeling. The hiccups that bubbled under his tongue and the heat that spread across his cheeks. His chin wobbling and the tension in his shoulders at breaking point. Honestly, he hadn’t cried much since the Battle of Hogwarts. He didn’t think there would be enough despair left in the world that he could find the tears to mourn himself. He had spent so long. So long caring about other people. What they thought, were they safe, were they happy? It was always for someone else. 

He cried for Sirius that he never experienced true freedom. 

He cried for Lupin that he never got to see Teddy grow up. 

He cried for his parents and the gap that his heart never healed. 

He cried for the Weasleys. Always the Weasleys, for their problems weighed heavily on his mind though Ginny used to insist they were fine. 

He cried for Dumbledore. He can’t remember why. 

That was before he truly left his childhood behind. When he was on the turning point of adulthood without the knowledge of what it meant to be a child. When the last tear left his eyes and he was stood in front of the world, putting on a brave face for the morning paper. Strict instructions and media coaching. That Harry was fine and undamaged and that his entire purpose had been served. That he was the role model, that he was the hero. That he should be brave. From then, he never cried. The strength it took to cry had left him. He wasn’t allowed to show weakness anymore, for showing weakness would alarm those around him. 

His own name held him prisoner. 

Potter this and Potter that. Potter the example. Potter the hero. Potter who saved the world and got everything he deserves. Phantom tears dripped down his cheeks, dry sobs fought against his palms and everything fell apart. Harry dragged his hands down his face. He supposed after a lifetime of hiding his true feelings, his mask was starting to slip. Only a matter of time... but the gift of expectation would mean he could never take it off. 

On the subject of unwanted gifts, there just so happened to be one on his desk. A paper bag standing in the centre, a neat crease folding the opening of the bag in a way of keeping it ‘sealed’, a small label sticking out from underneath it. Harry sighed, running his hands through his hair. Fucking Jefferies. What part of no didn’t he understand? 

Harry sat down at his desk, pulling out the next load of incident forms he was to write. Maybe he’ll submit one about being harassed at work by an idiot with a time turner portkey. He stared at the paper bag, willing it to go away. It didn’t. And that label was starting to annoy him, his fingers itching to find out what it said. Maybe it said ‘Sorry about last night, here’s some nice lunch for you darling’. Maybe it was a vial of poison so he could just disappear from this life altogether. Maybe it was a pile of poo... people still did that, right? 

Fuck it. 

Harry reached out and turned the label. 

“Don’t you wish for more, my soul? Free of the world so cruel and awful. Hold me close and turn me three, find the truth of the greed of me.” 

Jefferies was... really bad at poetry. Harry tossed the label aside, then pushed the bag out of the way of his paperwork. It did cheer him up a little, he supposed. It was always nice to see other people’s creativity run wild, even if it lacked rhythm and form. Like a writer with very little time on their hands writing about something maybe two people will read and enjoy before forgetting about it altogether. Maybe Harry should have become a writer, that way, he could have blended back into normal society. If only. 

Harry was drawn out of his wonderings by a loud crinkle. His eyes shot up from his paperwork, his brows crunching into a frown as he waited for the sound to repeat. In his experience, if something made a noise once, it would make at least two more before something bad happened. Three sounds in total. One down. Two to go. One to stop whatever is about to happen from happening. 

The noise didn’t repeat again. 

At least, not until Harry was elbow deep in granting emergency permission to enter a muggle home infested with a cursed biscuit tin. He almost didn’t hear it over the cries of the wizard on the other end of the Patronus, who seemed to be losing against a particularly aggressive custard cream. Yet there was no mistaking it. A crinkle. Just as mysterious and loud as the first. Unfortunately, Harry could not investigate the room for the source. His field colleague seemed to have forgotten that these biscuits, like most enemies, were edible. 

There was no mistaking the third crinkle. 

Like a gun had gone off in his office, Harry leapt up from his chair, knocking over his vial of ink and snapping his quill in half. Brain set in survival mode, Harry’s eyes searched for the source, his body racing on its own accord. Flinging open draws and files, throwing them across the room. Searching. Searching. He tore down his blinds, scanning the streets of London for a sign, anything. Nothing. No! He threw books off his shelf with little regard to the pages. The noise rang in his head, building to a thunderous crescendo. Blood filling his ears with his pulse thudding in his chest. He grabbed his wand from his desk, its point halting at the unassuming bag that had remained in place throughout the chaos. Untouched. Unopened. Crinkling. Harry scowled, letting out a growl of frustration. All this over a paper bag? He snatched it from the desk, ripping open the top, plunging his hand into the depths of the godforsaken paper brown bastard. 

It was hours until someone decided to check in on the famous Harry Potter. Who meant everything to the wizarding world. It had taken minutes for the Aurors to come. Some who held Harry up as an untouchable hero. It had taken seconds to call Mrs Potter to the wreck of her husband’s office, to read the note so plainly for her. 

“The Greed of We. The Greed In Me. The Greed you hide within. Save your mask of tears turn to farce, and forget him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I die in this life I am not coming back as a Bard I'll tell you that for fuckin sure. 
> 
> Thanks for putting up with my bad poetry, I won't be doing that again... maybe.


	5. Chapter 5

“So what you mean to tell me is that you have summoned a… person?” Slughorn stared at the Slytherin in front of him. An almighty migraine forming in the front of his mind.

Tom Riddle nodded once, smartly. He didn’t quite know what was so difficult to understand. He was growing tired of this little routine he and Slughorn would perform. Tom would do something magical, Slughorn would call him into his office for a ‘word’, Tom would get in trouble. Surely, the whole point of a magic school is to study and observe magic. Finding forgotten spells and putting them to the test. Living with the consequences of burning off your eyebrows or summoning beast. Or a person. Whatever this tricky spell was meant to do.

Slughorn blinked once.

“Why?”

Why? Because he wanted to. Because he could. Because it wouldn’t matter if he had summoned a book or if he had summoned a warthog or if he had summoned a person. He would have ended up in the same position. Standing in front of his professor. Getting ‘told off’. Well, that and…

“I’m not sure when they will arrive.”

“You aren’t sure when they will arrive.”

He liked this game. Where he says something and it gets parroted back to him. He wasn’t entirely sure Slughorn had a brain.

“Yes. It may be today, it may be never. However, I thought I should let you know that I will be expecting a guest.”

“Mr Riddle, talk me through what your thought process was when you performed this magic.”

“I saw the spell, I actioned the spell, I am now awaiting results.” Tom folded his hands in front of him. “I wondered what it did. That was all.”

“And the spells name…?”

“Socium Accersi” Tom lifted a finger, performing a lopsided eight in the air. “With a wand motion like this.”

“How do you know it summons a person?”

Tom shrugged. Slughorn rubbed his chubby face with his fat hands.

“You think you have summoned. A. Person. To Hogwarts?” Slughorn paused, “My boy this is impossible. Obviously impossible. One can’t simply Apparate into Hogwarts, which is in essence what you have done.”

“I took that into account, Professor. What do you think I am, an idiot?” Tom decided to take a seat. Something in his gut told him this conversation was going to go on for a while. “I altered the spell to act more of a charm than a summon. I won’t bore you with the details, of course, but I sent the person a gift.”

“Mr Riddle, this is exactly the sort of situation wherein the details aren’t boring.”

“I will leave you my notes then, Professor. Months of research and reading make for quite a notebook. They hardly matter now the spell has been performed, especially seeing as this spell doesn’t work.”

“If the spell works, which I hope it doesn’t, you understand you are going to be punished for this?”

“I understand, Professor.”

Slughorn fell into the same speech he had given Riddle before. How as head boy he should role model perfect behaviour. How he should be the shining example to all at Hogwarts. Riddle thought he was, if he was honest. He had nothing but perfect grades, perfect uniform, perfect… everything. Sure, his home life was an utter mess and it was better to ignore the skeletons in his closet for fear of them speaking. Yet everything else was sheer excellence. He had no doubt in his mind, should he stay on the path of Light, he would become Minister for Magic. Or perhaps, he could teach.

Then again, looking at the fine professor in front of him, Tom decided against that idea.

He almost wanted the spell to work to merely spite his professor. Perhaps that would be most cruel.

He was released from Slughorn’s office shortly before afternoon lessons began. For Tom, that would be double Defence Against the Dark Arts. Lovely.

This subject came easily to him. Perhaps it was because it was the most practical. As much as Tom loved reading and learning magical theory, there wasn’t anything better than blasting a classmate across the room. In a friendly, well-spirited duel, of course. Nothing ‘dangerous’… not that Tom would do anything dangerous. No. Not at all.  
Unfortunately for Tom’s itching wand, today’s lesson was essay based. Something he was growing bored of entirely.

Tom’s quill scratched against the parchment. The schoolwork itself was not a challenge anymore, particularly as it had ground to revision and repetition. How many essays could he write that were parroting back what the teacher said? No new insight or perspective offered marks. He knew his magic was brilliant, and his own research, flawless. If this spell of his worked. Why hadn’t it worked yet? Perhaps changing its target to a complex piece of magical equipment was an arrogant move of his part. Maybe he should have used it as intended. Tom wrote. His deskmate, copied. Tom didn’t care. This essay wasn’t going to be the make or break in his career. Hardly something that mattered in the long-

A loud bang startled him from his parchment.

His attention was drawn to the hand that slapped his inkpot off his desk and onto his lap. Black ink staining his clothes and tie. A figure toppled over on the desk in front of him, appearing to be in a set of Auror robes? None Riddle recognised immediately, the trousers slim fit and the robe being entirely the wrong shade of navy. Must be a new department.

The figure’s first breath sounded suspiciously like an angry ‘Shit!’

Charming.

Tom looked up to the intruder, raising an eyebrow.

Messy black hair that flew in all directions, the hair itself looking as though it didn’t give a shit about its own appearance and arguing on where its parting lay. Round Glasses shoved onto a thin face, lopsided in its sudden apparition. Tom was unsure if they were on upside down or not. The robes swamped the young man, eating him alive. He fumbled for stability on the desk, wild green eyes taking in as much information as they could in the milliseconds they had been open. Trying to piece everything together, the brain inside that head reeling from what must have been quite the traumatic squash through space. The young man became still, almost as suddenly as he had appeared. Tom couldn’t quite find the words to say, if he was honest. What do you say to a boy that appeared on your desk during Defence?

The boy turned to look at him.

“Oh for fuck's sake,” He said, putting his face into his hands. The boy drew in a breath, then yelled into his hands. A frustrated sort of yell. Like one would do if they were faced with an enemy, they believed they had thwarted or something. “Fuck me. I cannot believe this.”

Silence sped across the classroom. All eyes on Tom and his newfound friend. Hm. Perhaps that punishment of Slughorn’s would be in order after all. Tom decided to be polite, gently poking his guest in the ribs to gain his attention.

“Can I help you?”

“No, Mate. I don’t think you can.” The young man said, scooting off the desk and coming to a wobbly stand on his feet. He let his robes hang from him, shaking them out as he stood. “How old am I?”

Odd opening question.

“… I assume… eighteen? You have appeared in my Defence against the Arts lesson” Tom said, frowning at the ink smeared all over his assignment. “Though, you could be younger. It is hard to say.”

The young man didn’t seem concerned at all, instead, putting a hand on his hip. He stared at Tom as if he was already tired of this conversation. Like he had had one too many of these in his time… which was odd for an eighteen-year-old.

“Excellent. Have you killed your Father yet or was that the plan for this summer?”

Tom’s breath caught in his throat. How… how did this random man know about that? No one knew about that. In fact, Tom had made sure not to leave any witnesses at all to his plan. For this. This. This overgrown lanky man child to compromise his image in front of the class… Tom sat up straighter at his desk. Placing a stiff upper lip on his face, curling his expression into something passably innocent.

“I am no longer in contact with my father. He’s impossible to reach.”

“Course he is.” The young man said. Like he didn’t really care, like he hadn’t just asked if Tom was a murderer in front of everyone. More as though he was running through a checklist. Who was this man? “Have you made any progress on a Horcrux yet?”

Now he was taking the piss.

“I don’t see how this is relevant to anything- students don’t even have- what is a Horcrux-“

“Oh my lord. Right. Okay. Okay. Okay.” The young man said with some hand gestured aimed at himself to try and calm down. He put his hand on Tom’s desk, leaning forward until he was a breath away. “Alright Tom, here’s what we are going to do. My wife will kill me if I miss this scan and I-“

He stopped; a light switched on in his head.

“My wife isn’t even born yet.”

“Are you… are you quite alright?” Tom pressed, quirking a brow.

“My wife isn’t born yet.” He repeated, stunned. He froze in place. Tom stared at him, utterly confused at what he was going on about. A wife? A scan? What on earth were they scanning for?

A voice piped up from the back of the classroom.

“Sir there’s a man at Riddles desk”

“I’ve noticed, Mr Black.” The professor said, rolling his eyes at the display. “Riddle please take your friend to the Hospital Wing. I do believe he’s gone insane.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tom stood, taking a hold of the young man’s arm and leading him out of the classroom. That went better than expected. At last, the git had fallen silent, focusing his attention on the slapping of his shoes as he made his way through the winding staircases of Hogwarts. It unnerved Tom. This creepy little man appearing, shouting his secrets to the world then falling mute. Perhaps mute was better. At least he wouldn’t be able to tell the entire castle the colour of his underpants…

Was he a Seer? Did the spell conjure him a seer? If so, what was Tom to do about muzzling his mouth? The Seer’s eyes darted as if reading a book at the speed of light. Thinking,  
always thinking. It must hurt, thinking that hard.

Tom turned them into the Hospital Wing, marching him straight up to the Nurse.

“Good Afternoon, Madam Twigs. I wondered if you could help my friend here?” Tom gestured to the Seer. “He’s a touch confused.”

“Put him in cubicle one. I’ll see to him shortly. Thank you, Mr Riddle.”

Tom did as instructed and forced the fellow to sit on the bed. He saw no need to stay and play childminder. He was already rather busy with his long list of damage control this nuisance brought to him. Honestly. You’d think a Seer would foresee the trouble this could cause him. No matter. Tom turned sharply to leave, halting in his tracks at the sound of the Seer’s voice.

“Hey, Riddle. Sorry about that. I… I got ahead of myself.” The seer rapped his knuckles against his own head, shrugging. “Bad habit.”

“Uh-huh. Well, Madam Twigs will see that you have your ‘bad habit’ set right.” Tom muttered, going to pull the curtain behind him. He paused and took a final look at this seer, who was settling himself nicely in his bed.

He watched as he shrugged off the large Auror’s robe, suddenly making him look like a normal-sized teenager rather than a baby in a suit. Tom would have to find him later to ask why he was wearing that ridiculous get up at school… but then again, he found that he didn’t care at all. The Seer was looking rather pleased with himself, tucking his legs into soft white blankets, looking more at home than one rightly should in a hospital wing. What a strange boy indeed.

“What did you say your name was?” Tom asked, despite mentally deciding that he didn’t care.

Though, he couldn’t say his interest wasn’t piqued at the sight of the smile at tickled the corners of the boy’s lips. Or how his shoulders visibly relaxed at the question, a deep breath released from him like he had been holding it for centuries. How those bright green eyes looked at him as though he had found the secret of ending world hunger. The boy snuggled under the sheets, allowing the warmth of the blankets to cocoon his entire being. In a warm, contented voice, he answered.

“Harry.” He said, “Just Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels so short, sorry about that! 
> 
> They finally meet! Who knew this was going to be a time travel story after all? My original idea had Tom Riddle popping up on Harry's desk at work... but I felt that Harry could use a break from reality for a bit. What do you think, would the other way round be better?
> 
> It was a lot of fun writing the dialogue for this! Actually, the whole fic has been fun for writing dialogue for. Any feedback is greatly appreciated, fellas. Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you like what you read here, why not see my other fics? I've got mostly KH stuff in the works... Or, follow my Twitter @LizzyMaySpd to keep up to date with my other projects!


	6. Chapter 6

Harry tucked into a breakfast of golden syrup porridge, chopped banana and a strong cup of tea. Bracing. That was the word he was looking for. Cor, there was nothing like it. Something about the Hogwarts milk, maybe. Transformed plain old porridge into something heavenly. Unlike this old ‘Adult Harry’, who needed to ‘watch his cholesterol’ and was only allowed a little bit of almond milk. Golden syrup too, oh man. Ginny would be on one about that. He had this apple and raisin one at home which really didn’t hit the spot. Young Adult Harry didn’t need to worry about such trivial things like blood sugar and waistband size. His metabolism was like a steam train. He could feel it in his bones… okay. Maybe he didn’t. But nothing tasted like home like a bit of golden syrup and creamy oat mix.

He put his spoon down, looking around the familiar hall around him. Warm, full of life (and death, if you are including the ghosts that floated overhead). The many candles that lit the sky above his head, a few clouds blowing peacefully across the hall and out the window. An excited chatter of students, the fluttering of papers passed between friends, the practising of spells to refill their water goblets. Ah. There was nothing quite like it. He sighed, picking out a strawberry from a nearby fruit bowl and making his acquaintance in its sweet delights. His soul felt at ease like a warm blanket had tucked him in and some kind person kissed his forehead.

He felt more at home than he had been in years.

Of course, there was the one small problem of being back in the same time period as Tom Riddle. That old chestnut. His arch-nemesis. His foulest fiend. The fight for his life that left one of them dead and the other emotional scarred for twenty years. Ah. Harry took a sip of his tea. It wasn’t all that bad. Teenage Tom was nothing compared to the office gossips and the nipping of journalists. He was sweet, in the way that he would glare at him down the corridor. How Tom insisted on visiting Harry again in his hospital bed, asking questions. Harry decided to play the idiot, a skill he had honed throughout the years of interrogation and torture he endured in his line of work. He knew nothing, he babbled, he was reeling from his spontaneous trip to the 1940s.

So what if Tom Riddle knew Harry was from the future? It wasn’t like Harry had a way of getting back… or had any intention to return.

Was he crazy?

Here, Harry ‘Potter’ didn’t exist.

How exciting was that?!

Harry the example, Harry the Golden Boy, Harry the chosen one. None of it mattered, because none of it ever existed. Ever. Tom Riddle had yet to be the next Dark Lord… something Harry was chewing over. Would he stop it? For the sake of Neville or whoever will take his place as the chosen one? He took another strawberry. Maybe he should. It sounds like something Harry Potter would do. A nice little Harry Potter adventure where he slaughters a child for a crime they commit in another timeline.

Then again… He wasn’t Harry Potter anymore.

“Evans.”

Harry looked up, smiling warmly at the person who may one day not murder his parents.

“Hi Tom, what’s up?”

Tom looked disgusted, particularly at the use of his first name, with a secondary flavour of ‘grumpy’ at the use of ‘What’s up’. Harry supposed they wouldn’t use ‘what’s up’ in the 1940s. Nah, maybe they wouldn’t.

“Professor Dippet needs to sort your house. You can’t just pick the best bits from each table and sit wherever you please.” Tom folded his arms across his chest. “There are rules for a reason, you know. Else there would be utter chaos over the shredded wheat.”

“Ah. Right. Sorry. Brain like a sieve.” Harry stood, straightening his trousers. He was rather enjoying all this. Breaking the rules and being an all-round pillock. Taking the best bits of toast from the Ravenclaws and all the strawberry jam from the Hufflepuffs. Course, it was the Gryffindor porridge that was the piece de resistance of breakfast. Nothing tasted as sweet as bringing it all back to the Slytherin table, which had the best tea/coffee. Ah. The mix of houses. Perfect when trying to wind up the head boy of Slytherin house… actually… “What house do you recommend?”

“Slytherin. Obviously.” Tom said stiffly, walking out of the great hall with Harry. As if Harry didn’t know the way… or at least, Harry Potter did. Harry Evans did not. “You should know that the hat doesn’t let you choose. It decides for you.”

Harry begged to differ. Maybe he should throw caution to the wind and be a Hufflepuff this time around. Gryffindor was an expectation. Ravenclaw was far too much pressure. Slytherin was, as Tom said, obvious. But Hufflepuff? Now that was a curveball no one would expect.

Then again, no one was expecting anything of him this time around. Since he was not Harry Potter, and no one from his time was here. Harry stuck his hands in his pockets, leaning over to nudge shoulders with Riddle.

“And if I was in Slytherin?” He said playfully, just to try and get on Tom’s nerves.

“Then you’d be welcome.” Tom raised his eyebrow, a smirk appearing on his lips. “Why? You’d think I’d be foul to you for no good reason?”

“Oh no, it would be a good reason.” Harry hummed, pausing in front of the spiral passageway that leads to the Headmasters office. “Know the password?”

“But of course.” Tom said, standing straighter as he addressed the statue, “Periwinkle.”

Harry forgot to be impressed by the magical twirling of the staircase. Sorry, but you see one set of twirling magical staircases, you’ve seen them all. Especially this set. He had seen it far too many times, and they had never been for good reasons. The pair ascended the stairs, taking care to rest a hand on the wall as they went.

Something inside Harry rolled over, and not in a good way. Dread? Impossible. There was nothing here in this life that could hurt him. Nothing at all. No. Surely not. He side-eyed Tom. No. Not even he could hurt him in this current time… so what was setting off his stomach?

“Evans? Are you alright?” Tom asked, looking back over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs. “You ate too much, didn’t you?”

“Maybe. You did say the headmaster was Dippet, right?”

“Right. Professor Dumbledore should be there too…”

Harry felt his stomach drop. Never a good sign… but why for Dumbledore? His old mentor, a father figure in a place where he had none… why…?

His instincts screamed at him. So loud he couldn’t quite hear what they were saying. All rattling the bars in which they were locked behind. Screaming and screaming. Harry paused in his stride, just outside the door to the office. He stared at the doorknob, trying to make sense of what was causing his tummy to go onto the spin cycle.

Tom reached for the door handle, when Harry grabbed his hand at the same time, halting his action.

“Evans! What are you-“

“My name isn’t Harry Evans. Alright? It’s Seamus Finnigan.” Harry hissed, pressing a finger to his lips.

Tom frowned, then hissed back.

“Then why tell me it’s Harry?”

“Can you humour me, please? You don’t have to be difficult all the time you know.” Harry snapped back, much to Tom’s displeasure.

“I’m not being difficult, would you like to see difficult?”

“Oh please, if you are going to-“

“-You are the one making up-“

“-This is a matter of life and death-“

“Life and death? This is ridiculous-“

“You’re ridiculous-“

“-Nice. Petty remarks now?-“

“-Yes, now shut up-“

“Don’t tell me to shut u-“

“-Shhh-“

“Are you boys quite finished? We’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” Professor Dippet said, having opened the door and witnessed the two boys whispering to each other. “Come now, was it? Finnigan? No time like the present.”

The pair glared at each other. Some things never change, Harry supposed. Much like Dippet’s office. Dumbledore’s office. Whoever. The portraits hung in the same position they always had… minus the ones that now hung in Harry’s time. Dippet’s cat curled up by the fireplace, a perfect spot for a little tabby cat, Harry thought. It appeared there were other people in the room too. Other final year students, two from each house. Harry assumed these were the head boy and head girl for each house. It made sense really, if he was to be sorted into a house, it was only right for them to meet him here. Then… then…

Then there he was.

A set of piercing blue eyes that set alarm bells ringing from deep within his soul. Why? He couldn’t remember. Something. Something about the way that man looked upon him as though he was a lost little boy… lost little boy… Harry summoned his strength. No. Push those feelings out of the way. This was Dumbledore. Dumbledore! Who helped him vanquish the Dark Lord and save the wizarding world. The Wizard who set him on this path, long before Harry was even conscious enough to walk it. Dumbledore was the guiding light through the pressures of being the saviour of the wizarding world… the one who tried to guide Tom to the… Light…

Harry paused.

“Good Morning, Mr Finnigan,” Dumbledore spoke quietly. Warmly. A smile appearing just under his white beard. “Are you well?”

Harry did not answer.

Those eyes and that smile. That gentle voice. The frail-looking fingers that held onto the Sorting Hat. Funny that. The first decision of his new life was already out of his hands.

“Mr Finnigan?”

Harry blinked, back into the world of the living. Shaking off the pairs of eyes that now squinted at him suspiciously.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry. There was a lot to take in just now.” Harry smiled widely, an expression he loved to paint on for the front of the Daily Prophet. He reached forward to shake Dumbledore’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about your work, Professor. Glad to finally meet you.”

“And you, Mr Finnigan. I understand you dropped into a Defence against the Dark Arts Class?” Dumbledore took his hand, holding the Sorting Hat in the other. “The easiest way to get into Hogwarts is by train. Though I admire your ability to sneak past Hogwarts’ defences, I’d advise you do not do that again.”

“Sorry Professor. I have a bad habit.” Harry said, laughing as if his insides weren’t squirming around his body. What was wrong with him? Why was his handshaking? Why did his fingers feel like ice against Dumbledore’s? He needed to take a deep breath and calm down.

It wasn’t like Dumbledore knew. He hadn’t lived in the future yet. He couldn’t unravel the future by living in the past. Certainly not.

“Right. Well, since we are all here- ah, Mr Finnigan, if you wouldn’t mind sitting here- we shall begin this sorting ceremony.” Dippet said, shuffling everyone into their places.

It felt very much like it did before. With Harry sitting in front of the school body (or at least, their representatives), feeling the weight of expectation fall upon his shoulders. It didn’t help that the hat was placed by Dumbledore himself, expectations incarnate. Yet it did not feel as burdensome as before.

/Ah. This head feels familiar… could it be? A toy in time? How interesting./ 

Yes. Hello to you too, crazy hat voice.

/I see you desire more. Well. I stand by my original decision… but I know what you are like, Mr Potter. You believe you have always had a choice. See where that selfishness and greed take you, and I will grant you your wish./

He felt no compulsion to go back to Gryffindor, particularly as the Head Boy and Head Girl looked feverously eager to welcome him into their ranks. No thanks.

The Ravenclaws looked bored by him. Rightly so, Harry thought. He didn’t have the brain to be like them. Or the creativity. Or anything, really. He never thought he’d fit.

/There is always Hufflepuff?/

I was joking.

/Then… that leaves us only one option./ 

Harry looked up at Tom. To those broody eyes that asked a thousand questions at once. To the curl of his fringe and the twist of his lip. The frown that was calculating. Working. Always working. He must get tired of working at one point. Yet, something in him, something in Tom… it called out to his soul. Like something good will happen if he continues on this fresh start. Something good…

/Are you content this time?/

Yeah.

“SLYTHERIN”

-

Ginny sat in her armchair, as she had done for the past three hours. Her hands absentmindedly stroking her bump, her child kicking her at random intervals. She stared off into space. Her mind numb. Her face was raw from tears. Her heart was heavy.

A cup of tea was handed to her, though she took a few moments to acknowledge it. Its warmth did nothing for her.

“It’s going to be okay Ginny.” Hermione’s voice echoed in the emptiness of the room. “We’ll find him. We’ll bring him home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update? Double update. 
> 
> Enjoy <3


	7. Chapter 7

Kingsley Shacklebolt, the ageing Minister for Magic, sat quietly in front of the wizarding press. 

Age had made him wiser. With it, he knew to wait until people had exhausted their own conversations. Chattering amongst themselves. Prodding each other with their anxieties and ‘what-ifs’. Stirring rumour and fact within a single sentence, distorting the truth until it became a lie. It would have been amusing to listen to if the subject of the discussion wasn’t so grave. 

Harry Potter. 

The name that carried so much hope. So much nostalgia for a time when freedom was earned and fought for. A name that was the battle cry that ended the reign of the most powerful Dark Lord in wizard history. Had there ever been a time in the last thirty-eight years when that name hadn’t inspired courage? It was a call to arms, the spark of rebellion, a reassuring whisper. 

‘It’s okay. Harry Potter is here.’ 

Kingsley could understand the Ministries’ panic. Their safety blanket had vanished into thin air. He sighed, straightening his robes before taking the stand. He had the task of unleashing the news upon the entire wizarding world. A deadly hush fell over the crowd, a thousand desperate eyes flicked to his own. He gripped the stand tightly. His face composed. 

“My friends, it falls upon me to confirm that the rumours you have been hearing are true.” Kingsley took a deep breath, making eye contact with as many people in the crowd as he could. “Harry Potter has gone missing.”

The snaps of cameras, Rita Skeeter’s shrill voice crawling on top of many others. Scratching of quills and stamping of feet. A flood of hands flying to the ceiling. A thousand shouts. Kingsley took it all in, in one breath. He knew it was going to be bad. Really, he had expected an all-out duel between himself and the public. So far, so good. He raised a hand to hush them all, silence descending over the crowd. Their fears hanging off his every word. 

“Here is what we know of his disappearance…”

-

“Ugh. This book is out of date.” Harry said, flipping the heavy textbook shut. 

It made a noise too loud for the library. Several students glanced up from their studying to glare at him. Others didn’t seem to care in the least. They weren’t in the quiet section, after all. Which worked well for Harry, he didn’t care if he disturbed people. He wanted to complain. 

How exactly he had found himself repeating Charms and having a cute study session with Tom Riddle, Harry had no clue. One moment, he was happily tucking into lunch. The next, his free period was taken up by Tom. He didn’t need to study. He was an old ass man with a qualification in charms and knew about it well enough from years of Aurouring. He tried to explain this to Riddle, who dragged him from his ham sandwich and dumped him in front of a textbook. He wasn’t pleased about it. 

Turns out, Harry might need to study after all. The curriculum was very old (or brand new, depending on how you viewed it) and his fancy modern-day answers were a one-way ticket to failure. Even if they were the most correct. This was all Riddle’s fault. 

Tom peered up from his notebook, an unimpressed look in his bored green eyes. He slid the textbook over to himself, turning it over in his hands before looking at the inside cover. 

“It was published this year.” He said, tossing it back to Harry. 

“Exactly. Out of date.”

“As in a book is already out of date at the moment of its printing… or is this something to do with your weird time-related issue?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Maybe yes, it was to do with the fact he had been flung eighty-odd years into the past. That might have something to do with it. Maybe. It wasn’t like Harry had any experience with time travel. Oh, wait. 

“I’m just saying, the theory of the magic is completely out of date. Look at the state of this-“, Harry reached over the table and flipped it to a random page. “This is the recommended wand pattern for Wingardium Levosa? A single loop and flourish?” 

Tom frowned and peered over at the book. He skimmed the paragraph before shrugging.

“I don’t see your issue.”

Of course, he wouldn’t. How on earth had this idiot turned into the Dark Lord that ruined his life? Harry held his quill up, using it to emphasise his point. 

“A single loop and flourish is fine if you want to be showy with your magic. If you were a muggle at a circus pretending to do magic. You’d be better off just picking up the object and moving it yourself.”

“You could say the same about the killing curse. You could kill someone by hand and it would be just as effective.” Tom pushed himself away from the desk, drawing his wand. For a moment, Harry thought he was about to be subject to a little bit of death… that wasn’t quite the case. Tom flicked his wand to a pile of books nearby. “Lift them. Go on-“

No death today. Another classic Harry Potter tale ruined. 

Harry stood up and stretched his bones out from all five minutes of ‘studying’ he had done. He drew his wand from his robes and circled the table to Tom’s side. 

“Alright, alright. Jeez Tom, you are a little prickly today.”

“I’m always prickly. Move the book.”

He wasn’t wrong. In the short few days he had known the baby Dark Lord, he found him most prickly indeed. If it wasn’t making fun of the fact Tom didn’t know about magic in the future, he would throw hissy fits over little things. If his tea wasn’t brewed enough. If someone dog-earred a page in the book. If someone left the bathroom light on. If Harry rolled over in his sleep too much, despite being in different beds and Tom really needed to grow up. Harry smirked at him, assuming the correct foot position for the single loop. Like a conductor at an orchestra, wand raised high in the air. 

“Worried I’m going to make you look bad?” Harry cast a glance over his shoulder at Tom. Tom scowled. Cute. 

“Will you shut up and cast?”

Harry snorted.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

The books shook, dusting themselves off. Harry pulled one from the pile, a very out of date History Of Magic. He wasn’t in this edition. Since ‘Harry Potter’ didn’t exist yet, because Tom Riddle was yet to throw his name into the public eye. Actually, now he thought about it, he’ll never be in one. Ever. Anonymity in a hum-drum world. He’ll be a middle-aged man by the time he was meant to be born. His parents would live with another baby… another child who wouldn’t have to die. His parents would live to see old age, to see their child grow up. They would have the life Harry and his prophecy had torn them from. A second chance.

Fantastic. 

With a small smile on his face, he neatly slotted it into a space on the shelf. He glanced at Tom, who as predicted, was not impressed. 

“Yes. That is a levitation charm. Well done.”

Utter prick. 

“Ah, but what you need to do is a swish and flick.” Harry said, wiggling his wand between his fingers. “It’s a shorter movement, with the flick of the wand generating the momentum of the spell. Therefore, objects can be moved more efficiently, and with greater precision… you must have an idea where you want it to land, though. Sometimes the spell will kick back, and you’ll blast a tin of sweets off to space.”

“Sure. Show it to me.” Tom said, lifting his leg to shuffle onto the corner of the table. Tom ignored the huff from the student who had his butt in his face. Really, that student should feel blessed, Tom thought. He pointedly ignored the student and flicked his fringe out of his eyes. 

It crossed Harry’s mind that perhaps they were being a bit too noisy in the library, quiet section or not. Then again, he also didn’t care. He wasn’t the chosen one causing a ruckus. He was your everyday, average naughty schoolboy causing a riot. So, he shrugged the guilt off and returned to the task at hand. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a bit bossy?”

“No?”

“It shows,” Harry said, turning his attention back to the pile of books. 

This time, his arms far lower, his stance casual. Relaxed. The last time he did the spell like this, he was hovering James’ left shoe above his head. Nothing had been funnier than watching his teenage son get more and more aggressive to the shoe box as he tried to find it. If only he had looked up to see the toe of his trainer skimming his hair. Ah, how Harry had laughed. His son was fantastic… Harry shook away the thought. His son didn’t exist in this time… he won’t ever exist…

“Wingardium Leviosa,” He said, the spell spilling down his arm and out of the end of his wand. The sparks entwined in their dance to reach the book, coating it in a pale blue light. The sparks quickly turned invisible, and in a few seconds, the book was placed beside the other. Harry turned to face Tom. “See? Faster.”

“Hm. Show off” Tom stood next to Harry, holding out his wand in a similar fashion “Wingardium Leviosa”

Lo and behold, Tom was also able to perform the spell faster, with greater accuracy, and with far more finesse than he was able to before. 

Harry smirked at Tom. The kind of smug smirk you’d give someone when you’ve shown them how much of an idiot they are. 

“Shut up,” Tom said, putting his wand back in his robes and getting back into his seat. 

“You know I’m right.”

“I’ll admit, it is easier to cast, but it does feel rather lazy,” Tom said as he flipped open his textbook again, trying to find where he left off. See, this is why you should dog-ear your pages. You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t dog-ear your pages. 

“No no, it’s fast. If you are in a battle, I don’t think you have time to ready your foot stance and chant ancient magic”

“… or perform Wingardium Leviosa?” Tom frowned, “Why would you use it in a battle?”

Harry sat down again, ignoring his homework and resting his chin on his hand. Tom always had to argue the particulars. Nothing really changed then, between him now and him in the future. The one that hasn’t happened yet. 

“You wouldn’t. It’s just an example.”

Tom paused for a moment. A little light went off in his head, the future Dark Lord chewing on a thought before finding his words once more. 

“Can you do wordless magic?”

“Yeah. It’s straight forward once you know how.”

“Can you show me?” Tom asked, closing the book once more. As if he already knew the answer was going to be yes. 

Hm. Something in Harry’s stomach told him that would be a very very bad idea. This Tom Riddle had already proved himself a murderer, with poor Myrtle and Mr Riddle Senior falling victim to his magic. He had already tortured poor souls in the orphanage. He had already shown an intention to split his soul into a hundred pieces in a bid for immortality. Should Harry show one of the darkest dark lords in the whole of Wizarding history how to perform wordless magic?

“Yeah, no problem,” Harry said, standing back up and going over to the pile of books again. “You’ll want to start by-“

-

James knocked quietly on his parent’s bedroom door. 

“Mum?”

A quiet sniffle came from the king-sized bed, the rustle of sheets, the groaning of a mattress. His mother’s head popped up from the covers, her hand wiping away her tears. Her voice raspy, quiet. It hurt him to know she had been crying since dinner. 

“Yes, Darling? Everything okay?”

James hesitated at the door before entering. At sixteen, it wasn’t really seen as cool to go crawling into your mother’s bed at midnight. Things like the dark shouldn’t scare you. But tonight, they did. And James Potter dove under the covers and into his mother’s arms, curling up like he was a little toddler. Because he was frightened. He’d be lying if he had said otherwise. There had been a shake about his fingers and a pool of anxiety in his stomach that would not go away. Then it all started getting worse… he felt faint. Felt sick. Felt like he was clinging onto a thread of consciousness and if he fell asleep, he would slip away… he felt awful for coming to his mother. But he was scared. Even as she wrapped her arms around him and stroked his back like she did when he was a baby. This fear sat deep within his bones, in his blood, in his nerves. 

“I don’t feel very well.” He whispered into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh


	8. Chapter 8

The Slytherin common room was a strange place to call home. 

Its leather seats and sleek tables were a far cry from the rough and worn furniture of the Gryffindor common room. Gone were the footrests cakes with mud, and the wooden tables with a fraying cloth. In their place, stood proud polished surfaces, tables with coasters and glass display cases holding prizes won by brilliant students. The fire that burned bright green felt just as warm and as welcoming as Gryffindor’s. Though Harry somehow doubted they would gather there to burn marshmallows or set fire to a prefect’s sock. Especially not the Slytherin Head boy’s sock, not unless you had a literal death wish. Haha. 

One thing Harry did notice was that it had way more seating options than Gryffindor. He briefly wondered if they were a bit germophobic, or if they didn’t like touching each other. Which he found weird. Snakes tended to sleep in large piles all together, you know. Bit gross. Either way, he had enjoyed stretching out in front of the couch nearest to the fireplace. He had taken his blanket off the top of his bed and wrapped himself up all cosy, reading a ‘recent’ newspaper. A moving photo of people fleeing a small residential area, the smoke billowing from the roofs and dissipating at the photo’s borders.

‘Grindelwald’s followers destroy Muggle Village.’

Harry sighed and turned the page. 

Dark Lords never changed. It was always fire, screaming, pleading and crushing. It was always violent deaths and lost endings. Dark Lords loved it. Thrived off it. Holding life in their hands and watch it fizzle out. Watching mothers cling to their babies and ignore their screams. Watching fathers throw pointless spells at them to give their child a moment longer, another breath, another second. Dark Lords loved to hold their prey in their circle, letting it run, then clawing it back. Not like Harry had been exempt from that. Pleading with a nameless God to save his friends, since they already failed to save his family. 

If it wasn’t his Dark Lord, then he supposed it may as well be another. Which brought him to his next thought, as he pretended to read the Quidditch Colum. 

Was he meant to do something? Was that why he was brought back into the past? 

Was he meant to stop this raging Wizard? Had Dumbledore failed in some way, and sent for Harry before he knew Harry was born? And if he had, why hadn’t he already said something? Then again, Dumbledore did like to play his games too. Letting children run around and uncover a mystery, then pretend it was him all along who orchestrated it. Hm. Maybe that’s why his tummy felt funny. Unsettled. Churning. 

“Oi, have you started your Charms yet?”

Speaking of Dark Lords.

Tom stood behind him, holding two cups of tea. Harry blinked for a moment.

“Charms… Oh, piss I forgot.”

Tom chuckled and walked in front of the couch to place the tea on the coasters on the table. He threw himself back onto the couch, settling himself rather comfortably next to Harry.

“I thought you would. Shall we get started?” He said, taking some of Harry’s blanket without permission. Bastard. 

“You… haven’t done yours?”

“I have a life too, Harry. I’m allowed to do things other than homework.”

“I always assumed you were a nerd.” Harry reached forward for a cup, then paused before touching the handle. “This is for me, yeah?”

“No, it’s for the couch,” Tom said dryly, wordlessly summoning a pair of notepads and two quills. Harry knew it would have been a mistake to teach wordless magic to him. Using it for nerd stuff like studying and writing essays. Better than using it for murder, he guessed. 

“Couches don’t have mouths,” Harry said, taking it anyway, ignoring Tom’s second notepad being placed on his lap as he took a sip of tea. 

Woosh. A bracing sip. It was a decent colour too, a nice oak brown. No sugar, since Harry was sweet enough already. A splash of milk: Full fat. Nice and creamy but the bitterness of the tea leaf remained present. Enough so Harry had to verbally say ‘oosh’ after his sip, and a little ‘ah, lovely’, from the second sip. Tom smirked to himself, not that Harry was going to acknowledge it. A nice cup of tea was a nice cup of tea. Didn’t matter if your worst enemy made it. 

At some point during their little study sesh, Tom had summoned a plate of shortbread to the table. For sharing obviously. If Harry had been told he’d be sharing shortbread with his mortal enemy, he would have punched them in the mouth. 

Saying that it was surprisingly pleasant. The scratching quill being the only noise shared between them, with the occasional question regarding Charms. All in all, it was a very contented experience. Which gave Harry a moment to think, pausing in his writing to stare at his companion. 

Tom was acting strange. 

Not that Tom Riddle had ever acted rationally. To call Tom a sane and well-balanced person was an utter misfire of his character. So much anger brewed under porcelain white skin that Harry was shocked the young man wasn’t glowing red. Venom bled from poisonous green eyes, straight teeth would eventually fracture under the pressure of how hard they were clenched. His hands were permanently in fists, knuckled white and threatening to break the seal on his skin. That was how he usually held himself, with this vision of calm and serene innocence that would shatter in a moment of weakness. 

Tom wasn’t perfect at hiding his feelings yet. Then again, there was a point in his future where he no longer had to hide his true nature. The killer that lurked in the corridors of Hogwarts. The shadow that overcast the happy school environment. The dark mark that was yet to stain the walls with his friend’s blood… Lupin, Tonks, Fred. The bodies that lined the Great Hall. 

Harry pulled his mind away from memories that were yet to manifest. 

Perhaps he should never look for a cure for his time problem. These people would live if not for Harry… something he was keenly aware of every waking moment of every day. No. No…

That wasn’t what Harry was thinking about right this moment. He tended to spiral once these thoughts entered his mind. It was just a matter of untangling his brain and get back to what he was originally thinking about. 

No.

It was Tom acting strange. That was what his concern of the day was. 

It was started when Tom held a door open for Harry. Not for any particular reason, more so that he was being polite. That action had caused Harry’s spine to chill, goosebumps forming on his arm as he had walked through the doorway. That was two days ago. Yesterday, Tom laughed at one of Harry’s jokes. Self-explanatory as to why that caused Harry to look over his shoulder every two minutes. Only Ginny laughed at his jokes, and that had been when she was eighteen and in love with him. Before they had shagged. Way before they had children. Way before she had fallen out of love with him when the thrill of being with the most famous wizard in the world had started to become more of an annoyance. 

See how these thoughts spiral? 

No. Today’s strange behaviour? Tom was looking at him. And was smiling. Nicely. With a warmth about him, that just didn’t sit well in Harry’s tummy. Now he had curled his legs up underneath Harry’s blanket. He could almost feel the woollen socks stroking his leg. Right. Lets put a stop to that. 

“What?” Harry finally snapped.

“Do you know how to spell your surname, Mr Finnigan?” Tom’s smile turned playful as he fluttered the feather of his quill over to Harry’s parchment. 

“Oh my days, Tom it literally doesn’t matter.” Harry sighed, tucking his legs underneath him just that little bit more. Away from Mr Matching Socks. “I can’t remember if there is one ‘I’ or three ‘N’s. It doesn’t matter.”

“There are three ‘N’s.” 

Harry rolled his eyes, looking down at his parchment again. He had been so sure there were four. Never mind. He crossed out the extra ‘N’. 

“You know, for someone playing codenames, you are doing a terrible job at it.” Tom sank into his little corner, writing another sentence of brilliance down. He’d probably get an O on this paper too. 

“Oh, you’d sure know about code names alright,” Harry said bitterly, starting his next sentence before crossing out the whole damn page.

“You say that like I have an alternative name.” Tom snorted, though he had put his quill down. Anything time related seemed to interest him greatly, which, yeah, it would. 

“Oh Tom, sometimes you are adorable.” Harry smiled nicely. “How did you come up with Voldemort? I’ve always wondered but I never asked.”

Tom blinked, opened his mouth to say something then closed it. Ta-Da, another future surprise! Harry felt like a fountain of knowledge. 

“Well, ‘Mort’ is part word for death… Volde sounded like an obvious addition.”

“No relation to the name ‘Tom Marvolo Riddle?’.”

“No. For my name to make that, it would need to be ‘I am Lord Voldemort.’” Tom paused for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“Good grief.” Harry sighed, screwing up his parchment and tossing it into the flames of the fireplace. “Your ego is so large I wonder how you get through doors.”

“Staying humble is a foolish pursuit, particularly in cases of true greatness.” Tom picked up his quill again, wrote a few more sentences, then put it down again. “Finished. A true masterpiece if there ever was one.”

Harry sat up with like a shot.

“What?! We only started half an hour ago!”

“Half an hour is all you need,” Tom said smartly. Harry scowled. 

“Explains why you haven’t got a girlfriend.”

“What? Because I’m a hard worker?”

“No, you don’t last long enough.”

“Better to finish than never at all.”

Harry’s lips fell into a pinch. 

“You can have this one.” He said, conceding. He’ll think of a good retort later and he will wake Tom up at midnight just to finish his point. 

Tom smirked to himself, lifting his tea and shortbread. With his little finger, he encouraged the paper Harry had been reading to lie on his lap. Honestly. So lazy. Harry tried not to get irritated by the happy munching that went on next to him whilst he scribbled some half-arsed answer on Charms. He didn’t know what the question was, but anything to do with charms tended to be wand motions related. Maybe he could write a little more on types of levitation spells…

“Am I the Dark Lord in your time?” Tom asked as casually as he would the weather. “I must be since you know so much about my ‘evil intentions’.” 

How on earth do you answer that? Harry paused in his scribbling. He was, really, the adult in this situation. He had lived Tom’s reign and brought it crashing down around him. He had seen Tom’s memories, all his mistakes, all his successes. Was it even worth lying to him? Wasn’t that how he got into this mess in the first place? Adults lying to children? Not that this Tom before him was a child. Just an adult. A young adult. About to make some of the biggest mistakes the wizarding world had ever seen. Harry scratched his nose, pushing his glasses up higher onto his face.

“You were.”

“And… I take it I am no longer?”

“No. I stopped you. I had some help, sure, but it was me who took your life.”

Tom took another bite of shortbread, chewing the information over. 

“How did you do it?” He asked.

“Your spell rebounded onto you.” Now Harry made it sound like it was Tom’s fault. Though it was. Well. Not really. It was by Harry’s hand, in some way. “Our magic has always been intertwined you see? Should I tell you that?”

“Probably not. It might mean I get a good hit in next time.”

“Maybe. I hope not. I have children at home.”

“Ah yes, you mentioned a wife.” Tom’s fingers dusted off the crumbs of his shortbread, slender digits curling around the warm mug of tea. Those sharp green eyes of his watching his every movement, a viper waiting to strike, milking more and more information from him. “Are you happy now? That I am dead?”

Harry squinted at him suspiciously. Weird question. Was he happy he murdered someone and was celebrated a hero?

“I don’t understand?”

“I’ll take that as a no.” Tom sighed, turning his attention back to the newspaper. “I don’t like the idea of a child dying. It doesn’t seem right to me. They have such little power, how could they have a say in a world that will leave them behind?”

If only he knew the devastation he had made to baby Harry’s life. How he had raised his own wand against an innocent baby. How he had tried and failed to take his life. Tried and succeeded to take his life once more before he had even made it to adulthood. How can you console your enemy of the devastation that hurts them, when they will do it? Young adult Tom had no idea what was coming for him. Not really. 

“Adults make bad choices. We do stupid things. I do a lot of stupid things…” Harry watched as Tom flipped a page of the newspaper, moving onto happier news. “Do you think they miss me?” 

“Your children?” Tom raised an eyebrow.

Harry nodded. Tom shrugged.

“If your wife isn’t born yet, I struggle to see how your children have the consciousness to miss you. I wouldn’t know about love and attachment. Dumbledore says I don’t feel those things, so I think you are asking the wrong person.” 

Harry set aside his essay. Yeah. That didn’t seem to matter much now. In all his unhappiness, all his grief and open wounds, he didn’t think he could say his children were the stitches pulling him back together. He wasn’t fixed by the family that he had longed for. He wasn’t fixed by the love he had been told he had earned. He wasn’t fixed by money or fame or luck. He had everything he could have ever wanted. Everything he had dreamt of from when he was ‘just Harry’, sleeping under the staircase. He had food in the cupboards and friends at the ends of letters. 

‘Maybe I’m being greedy’ He thought to himself. ‘Was it all that bad?’

He looked to Tom, whose leg had now made contact with his at last. Warm, bold and unafraid. Their eyes made contact. But this was all wrong. He wasn’t meant to sit there like that, to look at him with those sorts of eyes, to display this kind of kindness. A thought flashed across Harry’s mind, though quickly tossed out. No. No. He looked away, to the fire, ignoring Tom’s murmur.

“You are quite strange.”

-

Hermione closed the smallest Potter’s bedroom door, sighing to herself. It had taken hours to pries Lily off her, and hours more to console her to sleep. It was exhausting. The bags under her eyes growing each day she stayed with the remaining Potters, anything to help her family. She moved to the living room, finding Ginny looking blankly out the window. As if Harry was going to suddenly show up on their driveway. It broke Hermione’s heart to see her like this.

“Lily’s asleep.” She said, coming to sit by her sister. 

“I don’t know what to do with them,” Ginny whispered, “James is sleeping so much he’s hardly awake. Albus has shut himself away. Lily won’t stop crying… I haven’t felt the baby so much as kick today…”

“Ginny… they’re all worried about their father. Even this little one here.” Hermione patted her back soothingly. “We’ll go and get you checked over tomorrow, first thing.”

Ginny face crumpled, though no more tears came. What else was left?

“Oh, Hermione I wish I never said what I did. If I had let him go on some adventure or something maybe he would have stayed-“

“I don’t think he did this on purpose, I think he was taken.” She said, wrapping her arms around her, feeling her shoulders slump in defeat. “He loves you, Ginny. He loves you and the children. If I know Harry, I bet he’s looking for a way to get back to you, right now.”

Ginny wished she could believe her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. I'm sort of on the frontline of the COVID pandemic and have had little downtime to write. (That's my excuse for how shit this chapter is anyway) Bants. Let us know what you think of the story so far!
> 
> Stay safe, stay at home! (Read more of my other fanfics and follow my twitter to witness my mental breakdowns on the topic of COVID)


	9. Chapter 9

Tom Riddle would not say he had many friends. Close or otherwise. He had people he knew, people he tolerated or people he flat out ignored. Not because he thought himself better than them. Thought that was a popular rumour. Tom would rather describe himself as shy. Yes. Shy.

‘Shy: Nervous and uncomfortable with other people.’

What had Tom Riddle to be nervous of? Let us make a small list.

1)Rejection

It had happened once and only allowed to happen once. Tom had tried to sit next to Walburga Black, only for her to get up and leave straight away. Sure, it might be because the bell had just rung and she had to go to her lesson. It might also have been because Tom had said hello. But it still hurt the young Riddle’s feelings. Ever since then, he had vowed to never ask to sit- or say hello- to her or anyone else again.

2) People are unpredictable.

His closest ‘friend’, one Orion Black, was somewhat of an unpredictable jack in the box. One moment, he would be relaxed, sunbathing in the summer sun away from Tom and his sulking in the shade of a tree. The next, he would find himself fleeing with Orion’s grip on his wrist. That had frightened the life out of Tom. Though he couldn’t be sure it was the sudden act of running or the fact he had been reclining on the Whomping Willow. Either way, he had decided against spending too much time with other people. If Orion was one of many unpredictable factors, it would be better to limit his exposure.

3) Harry made him uncomfortable

That was true. His new ‘friend’ Harry Evans nee Seamus Finnigan Nee Harry Finnigan was making him extremely uncomfortable. The frequent name changes, his stop/start stories. How he looked at Tom with unreadable expressions. The creep. He didn’t want to let him out of his sight. He made his stomach turn when he didn’t know where he was, or how he was doing. Someone like that could be doing anything. It was important to reduce the number of variables.

He waited outside of all of Harry’s lessons, walking him to his next, just to make sure that he got where he said he was going. Even if it made Tom a few seconds late to each lesson, the uncomfortable feeling eased for the moment he knew where Harry was. Only to rear, it’s head at the end of the hour. It wasn’t just lessons. He could do anything in a moment where Tom wasn’t watching him. It was at lunch breaks, feasts, in the common room. The last thing Tom saw before he slept and the first thing he saw when he woke. That Harry was still there.

Harry’s smile made him feel uncomfortable too. He smiled too much. At Tom, at other students, at his professors. It made Tom itch all over, and his stomach felt like lead. Tom couldn’t stand it. And Harry’s laugh too, that just made everything worse. It would set Tom’s face on fire. Make his hands shake to the point he couldn’t hold his want. Awful. Why would someone smile that much? What did he have to gain from smiling? If he was from the future, then he would surely know whose favour to gain. In that, he would also know who to avoid like the plague. Slughorn was an on Harry’s avoid list, though Slughorn did try his best to follow Harry as much as possible. Tom took great pride in deflecting the man’s attempts, as it would seem Slughorn had been trying to avoid Tom since their little ‘Talk’.

He took caution when relaying his observations to Orion. He didn’t have to know everything. But he should know enough to realise how much of a danger Harry Finnigan was. Orion was disposable, so it wouldn’t matter too much if Orion failed to keep an eye on Harry when Tom was away. It would be his sixth obliviation if he spoke out of turn.

“I don’t think he’s making you uncomfortable,” Orion said, walking alongside Tom as they made their way down to the Quidditch Pitch to watch Harry’s trial for the Slytherin Team. “It sounds like you’re interested in him.”

“No, that’s not it,” Tom replied, burying his nose into his scarf. The nip of winter tried to come for him, but it wouldn’t touch him this time. “He’s a nuisance.”

“Then why are you going to watch the Quidditch Trials? You hate Quidditch.”

The answer was obvious. Harry has been given a high-speed vehicle. He had mentioned he was somewhat proficient in that. Nothing was more terrifying than the idea of that creepy little time travelling man child zipping through the air and harassing Tom from the sky. Or that he would escape Hogwarts and try to find a way to leave. Why did the spell have to deliver him an absolute mad man? Tom shrugged and answered simply.

“Harry asked me too.”

“I asked you last year.”

“I didn’t like Quidditch then,” Tom replied, moving fluidly through the small crowd of students trying to get into the changing rooms for their trials briefing. He didn’t bother looking for Harry since he would already be briefed and on the pitch.

“What’s a quaffle?” Orion asked, folding his arms around himself, winter targeting him instead.

“A fight,” Tom said smartly, pushing through the cloth door to the stands and heading inside. He didn’t see Orion shake his head.

The pair made their way up to the highest stand, seeing as it was not an official match, nor did any important wizard wish to reserve the bench. From here, he would get a good sight at the pitch, ergo, a good sight on Harry.

“Oh, look, there he is,” Orion said as if Tom hadn’t already seen Harry walking out onto the pitch. He blended in well with the other Slytherins trying out of his position. Though he was noticeably shorter than the rest. It made him look… sweet. Vulnerable. Though that was everything Harry was not. “What is he going for?”

“Seeker.” Not that Tom knew what that was meant to mean. “He used to play for his old school.”

“Where was it he said he went?”

Tom did know. Not that he was going to tell that to Orion.

“Not here” The lie as smooth as butter

“Well duh,” Orion said, leaning back against the stand behind him. The fool would eat anything Tom gave him, Tom decided. Good to know.

At the blow of a whistle, he was off. It was almost impossible to see where Harry went. Terror struck through Tom.

“Wow!” Orion shouted over the rush of air that attacked the stands. “Fuck me he’s fast!”

Tom sat up a little straighter, eyes darting all over the pitch to find Harry again. There were too many players, too many blurs that flew in front of his vision. They all flew in a pack, all chasing after one little ball that Tom could not see. How was Harry, Harry with the glasses, supposed to see where the ball was? He was blind as a bat. Tom knew because Tom had had the pleasure of watching Harry walk straight into a trunk when he was getting ready that morning. The man might be fast, but that didn’t make up for the simple fact that he couldn’t see. Tom looked up.

A figure circled the pitch. Their hands clasped onto the broomstick as they leaned down. Looking, searching. That was his Harry. Creepy creepy man. Of course, he’d separate himself from the crowd. Suspended in the air, hundreds and hundreds of feet off the ground. There was no way he could see the little gold ball thing from way up there, was there? Tom's chest tightened. This game was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. Dangerous.

Suddenly, Harry’s broom pointed down, and Harry began to plummet towards the ground. Shit. Tom was on his feet, wand in the air, a spell on his lips. Harry fell and fell, the broom still pointed straight to the hard grass beneath him. Tom’s wand crackled with a spell he barely knew.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Orion shouted, knocking Tom’s hand to the side and sending the spell off into the distance.

“He’s falling! He’s-“

A loud cheer came from the pitch, followed by a round of applause. Harry was on the ground, not in pieces, but walking confidently towards the team captain. He dropped the little ball into the captain’s hands and received a clap on the back. He had done it. He was on the team. Tom gritted his teeth so hard his temple pulsed.

“What’s wrong with you? You could have hurt him.” Orion said, watching as Tom sank back down into his seat, his cheeks flushing red and ears thundering with blood. “Tom?”

“He won’t play.”

“What?”

“He won’t play. I won’t allow it.” Tom barked, causing Orion to frown.

“He’s probably the fastest seeker Hogwarts has ever seen. You’re going to be stuffed trying to stop him from playing.” Orion said, his attention snapping down to the pitch, where the Slytherin’s were shaking hands in good sportsmanship. Harry looked elated. “Look at him.”

And Tom did. It made him feel awful.

He looked happy. Incredibly so. With the hands of his new teammates daring to touch him, tousle his hair, slapping his back, offering handshakes. It made his blood boil. His Harry, who risked his life for some stupid gold ball. His Harry would go out and do this every week, with another team that wouldn’t care if he fell to his death. That his Harry would have his brains splattered across the grass and his blood mix in with the painted lines. His Harry, that he summoned back to this time. Saving him from his life before. If anything, Tom should have the ultimate say.

Tom made his way down the stands, leaving Orion behind. He had much more important things on his mind rather than waste time on Orion. He shoved his hands in his coat, stomping over to the exit of the changing rooms. He could hear the jostling of athletic idiots, cheering and laughing and talking. Always talking. One day, he would make them listen.

-

“Yes, Finnigan! Do that in our matches and we will absolutely destroy the other houses!”

Harry laughed, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he walked out of the changing room. It felt just as it used to. The rush of wind in his ears, the pleasant lift of his tummy, the cold metal around his fingers when he touched the snitch. It occurred to him, very briefly, that he owned that. Not now. Obviously. Somewhere in his bedside table 80 years from now were the two halves of the snitch, now missing the resurrection stone. Heh. Strange how life turns out. He gripped the handle of his bag a little tighter, waving to the Slytherins as he went to leave.

And promptly ran straight into someone.

“Sorry, I didn’t- Oh! It’s you!” Harry’s smiled widened to a grin at the sight of his worst enemy. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

The teen frowned, folding his arms across his chest. He looked cold and very grumpy. Whether this was a different sort of grumpy compared to his usual level of grumpiness, Harry had no clue. It was endearing really. Especially when a very light covering of snow decided to rest upon his shoulders, his woollen hat dusting with a crown of frost. An ice king indeed.

“You asked me too. Here I am.” Tom said dryly. “You are going to waste your time playing Quidditch?”

Harry shrugged.

“I’m making up for lost time.” He said, starting on the path back up to the castle. Tom followed. “I spent all my teenage years fighting you I missed out on a lot of matches. It’s been years since I played Quidditch. Ah… I didn’t realise how much I missed it.”

Tom scowled, not that Harry could see under his scarf. He could feel it in the air, like an aura. He decided to ignore it. Tom wasn’t due to kill him for another few decades. He felt rather safe as he stepped in tandem with the young dark lord.

“Thank you for your sacrifice. I’m sure no one else would have killed me if you hadn’t done it.” Tom spat bitterly. Wow. Something really had ruffled his feathers. Harry shrugged, smirking as he walked.

“There was a prophecy and a…” Harry stopped himself. Bad idea. That was the whole reason his parents died in the first place. Voldemort discovering that Harry would be the one to end him. Bad idea, bad idea. “I think we’ll win this year. I never lost a match when I played.”

“A prophecy?” Tom picked up on the more future-orientated questions, not Harry’s insane ability to see a small golden ball when his eyesight was as bad as a mole. Since when did Harry have such a loose tongue?

“Hm? Oh yeah. Something about me killing you. Don’t worry about it.”

Tom barked a laugh, his breath crystallising in the winter air.

“Ha. I bet it was Dumbledore who told you that.”

Harry stopped walking, the crunch of ice under his foot stopping Tom too. What did Tom know about the future Dumbledore? Nothing. He knew nothing.

“It was. You got a problem with that?”

“No. You should. Dumbledore talks a lot of rubbish.” Tom shook his head, “Instead of wasting your teenage years being his puppet, you could have played Quidditch.”

“I had to help other people.” Harry retorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “People you put in danger.”

“I bet Dumbledore told you that too.”

“I was chosen.”

“By Dumbledore. Yes.”

Harry scowled. By Tom too. He had been set on a path he never had a say on. Forced to save a world that had forgotten him for eleven years. A world that let him live in a cupboard under the stairs, let him starve, let him be beaten. Dumbledore knew of the torment he had faced… but he had sent him back there every summer.

Harry stared at the young man in front of him.

Tom could have been a reflection of him. Abandoned for eleven years by a world that refused to acknowledge him. ‘Saved’ by Dumbledore, who gave them purpose. Set them on their paths. That Tom was some great villain, evil from birth, evil from his first breath. That he was an orphan too, so no one could teach him his true worth. Dumbledore had truly left his mark on them both. An evil thought entered Harry’s mind. What if… what if everything he had done, Tom had done… had been orchestrated by Dumbledore. What if Harry had been destined to be miserable, Tom destined to die at his hand… for what reason? All this misery, but for what?

“Why do you care so much?” Harry whispered bitterly.

“Why did he send a child into a battle you never could have won?”

“I did win.”

“Did you?”

Harry’s brain short-circuited. Of course, he won. He was a hero. He had his life. His wife. His children. His job and his friends. He had his life. Of course, he won. How could that not be a win? He had everything he wanted. Everything he wished he had when he was a child under the stairs. He was the epitome of success. He was selfish for not thinking so… right? He scowled, looking away from Tom. Dumbledore had made him the hero. He had made Tom the villain.

Heroes always won… what was a hero anyway? The more Harry heard the word, the more he doubted its meaning. What a poisonous word Hero had become. It tasted cold. Metallic. Copper and bloody. It excused all hardship he had ever faced. It did not matter how many times Dudley had hit him, how many days he starved. He was the hero of the wizarding world. It was character building. It didn’t matter how many times Dumbledores carefully laid mysteries put him in the hospital wing. He was a hero. This was his training. It did not matter that his Godfather died. That was his tragic backstory. It didn’t matter that he was a person, with feelings. He was a hero. He unwillingly played into the role and gave up everything, for what? A life a hero could never fit into.

Was this forced role what forced Tom into a life of villainy? He was simply playing his part. Maybe he knew, even now, that he was destined for a violent end.

“All I asked you to do was to come and watch me try out for the team,” Harry said finally. “I didn’t want to be pestered on my past.”

“It’s my future, Harry.” Tom sighed, reaching out and taking Harry’s bag from him. He put it over his shoulder instead, “I don’t want to die.”

“You would have lived longer if you hadn’t tried to… to tear yourself apart.” Harry said quietly. God. How lost these boys are.

“I realise that now.” Tom continued walking, “You’ll live longer if you don’t try and fall out of the sky.”

“Tom, I would rather you kill me again than stop me playing Quidditch.”

“I won’t watch you, Merlin knows it gave me a heart attack.”

“You were worried about me?”

“Of course, you are the only link to my future. Who else will be my seer?” Tom said. Harry jabbed Tom in the side but moved too slow to get out of the headlock Tom had caught him in. Like the snake he was, Tom gave his throat a squeeze. “Ah! It won’t be that easy!”

“Alright! I give, I give!”

The pair of wounded boys made their way back up to the castle. How could anyone understand what they had been through? How could anyone have left them to fend for themselves? Harry, the abandoned. Tom, the scorned. Both, the orphans. The threads of their story had always been intertwined like they had been weaved in the stars. How were they to know that their fates had been decided, millennia before they came to be? Though no one noticed that their souls cried out for each other, broken and misused, it did not take long for rumours to spread. How the cruel Tom Riddle kept his arm around Harry’s shoulder the entire walk to the common room. How the kind Harry had forgotten to take his hand off Tom’s waist. How strange these two had wrapped around each other. How their bleeding wounds found a moment to heal.

How greedy the man who set to tear them apart and take everything they ever had.

-

The Potter house was still. The quietest it had been in the 16 years it had been since the young family had moved in. The curtains remained closed in the oldest Potter child’s room. The doors no longer slammed shut from the middle child’s room. The dollies remained in the toy box of the youngest Potter’s room.

Ginny Potter felt the faint kick of her child, safe within her. For how much longer, she did not know. She gritted her teeth. She had no more tears. No more sorrow. Just pure, unadulterated rage. Wherever her greedy husband had disappeared to. Whoever took him. Whoever dared to tear her family apart. She would not stand for it a moment longer.

She took a handful of Floo Powder and threw it into her fireplace. 

“Harry’s Office”


End file.
